let the universe remember who we once were
by peroxide blue
Summary: Castiel makes the final sacrifice: everything he was, is and will ever be in Exchange for the safety of the Winchesters. After all, he's always happy to bleed for them, isn't he?


**So... I'm alive! That's always a plus. I think.**

 **Okay guys, so after being away from my beloved account for about two years (I think?), I'm finally back. Things have changed since my last time here, I'm not into SPN as much as I used to be, but I'm always a slut for angst, so I'm here once again to bring you angsty one shots that i started writing like two years ago.**

 **There are more SPN fics in the making, but who tf knows when they'll be finished? Because I sure don't.**

 **So for now enjoy this new story and remember: college is awful and will at some point attempt to take away everything you love (your fic writing time, dreams, aspirations, hours of sleep, etc.) so remember to relax every once in a while!**

 **DISCLAIMER: I still don't own anything.**

* * *

"You can't make me."

The room is silent, in an absolute way that makes their breaths sound like thunderstorms in the middle of a cold winter night.

"It's for your own good."

There it is again. The insane glint in the eyes of a desperate man, the most primal instinct, survival, making its appearance as the dying man (who will save himself with just enough willpower) fights against the vast ocean and its herculean rage.

It could be beautiful. It _should_ be beautiful, seeing the most raw, naked power of humanity in the eyes of the one he prefers over anything.

But it's not, because it means the other man will put up a fight, only hurting the two of them even more in the process.

"You cannot make my decisions for me."

A violent hurricane, a meteor shower, waves that cover entire cities, a billion human souls screaming together on the inside. Castiel keeps finding more and more things to compare to Dean's anger and passion (most of the time, they are the same thing). It's violent and explosive, something akin to a branch snapping or a window shattering. It's loud and it demands attention, and Castiel has never been more in love.

"This isn't up for discussion."

"Dean's right, Cas." Sweet, gentle Sam, who deserved so much better, who never wanted any of this, is now accepting his own death sentence.

"I am. And I will."

(And let me tell you, galaxies would collapse and be created again before Castiel changed his mind about this.)

"Dammit, Cas! If you want to wipe our memories and erase yourself from our lives, then at least give us a fucking reason!"

Dean is right, he supposes. They at least deserve to know the hidden motives behind his move, especially after everything they sacrificed because of him.

Unfortunately, that's not possible.

"Heaven has decided to punish me for my crimes. It wants both of you gone, of course. But," His heart is hammering against his ribs as he licks his lips, his throat dry like the Sahara desert. "They have sworn to let both you and I live if I just erase myself from your memories."

It's a lie, of course. But they don't know that.

Something heavy (perhaps regret) settles in his stomach as the two men in front of him lower their heads and sigh in defeat; and his heart shatters upon the sight of the most stubborn warriors in this universe giving up.

"We could get out of this together, as a team. As a family."

Hurtful and effective, but pointless. Castiel has made his decision.

"This is the only way. Believe me when I say I'm sorry."

Sorry does not even begin to cover the regret that runs through his veins, clawing at his bones and make everything go black and white.

(Except for those eyes. And oh, how much he's going to miss them.)

"I'm sorry, Sam. You've been a good friend to me, and I feel honored to call you my brother."

Fingers that touch slightly wrinkled skin. Sam lies on the floor, unmoving and with no memories of the angel of Thursdays.

It hurts. Maybe he shouldn't continue with this. But it's not like his decision will change anything in the grand scheme of things.

"Dean. Forgive me."

"Just get on with it."

A short pause. An _'I love you'_ whispered while holding back the tears. A flash of celestial blue before any other words can be spoken.

And a heavy, deafening, final silence.

* * *

"I'm glad you finally made the right choice, Castiel."

Their eyes are pure steel— cold, sharp and unforgiving; cutting through his ribs and crushing his heart in its gelid embrace.

Which, if he's not wrong, won't be too far away from the truth.

"I am no longer part of their lives. Now it's your time to keep your end of the bargain. Leave them out of this. Don't harm them in any way."

"But of course, brother. Do you take us for someone who doesn't keep their promises?"

They all speak as one, mouths moving in perfect synchrony; and with the same hard, empty look in their eyes. He was once, too, part of them, part of that family. He's not sure he misses his time amongst them.

"Proceed, then."

He barely notices at first. The blade slowly but firmly sinks into his chest, moving so gracefully it almost leaves him breathless.

(And what an irony that the same blade that it's slowly taking his life away would steal his breath too for entirely different reasons.)

It reminds him of Dean, in a way. Because Dean is violent and dangerous like the death of a star; but he's also warm, gentle and loving, like a cup of your favorite coffee on a cold Sunday morning.

He slumps on the floor, blood pouring out of his mouth and an already dying grace trying to escape through the gash between his ribs.

And that's it, really.

His damaged wings will now forever be imprinted on the floor of this abandoned house, blue eyes blinking up at the pale grey ceiling for the last time.

It's a pity that a hero so great got a death so silent.

* * *

The blade had narrowly missed the left side of his neck, its quiet buzzing sound had cut through the air, singing a deathly hymn to all those not quite ready to leave this world yet.

A shudder shakes his entire being, accompanied by a chill running down his spine as the cold steel of the knife decided to avoid his flesh, silently sparing him.

Why it felt so final, he doesn't know. He's faced many things worse than that. Hell, he's fought entire armies of demons without so much as blinking. Then why, _why_ , did that barely sharpened knife belonging to an angry junkie feel like a death sentence whispered directly into his ear?

He closes Baby's truck violently, ending the loud thoughts of his exhausted mind. He's just tired. That's probably it. He has spent the last three days drinking coffee and driving while Sam naps in the backseat.

(How he envies him. He really wishes he, too, could sleep soundlessly.)

His knuckles whiten as his fingers tighten their grip on the steering wheel, refusing to stop looking at the road even if he hasn't started the car yet. Just a few hours of sleep, that's all he needs.

Sam snores quietly behind him. Dean starts the car. The stars are bright over is beloved baby, but he doesn't notice. A figure stands before him, the Impala quickly approaching it, and the stars don't really matter much to him when he's trying not to crash.

(But he fell and crashed ages ago, and he's not completely fixed it yet.)

An abrupt turn to the left. Blinding brightness. Sam grunts from behind his back.

And the figure it's gone without a trace (perhaps it's a metaphor for his life).

"The hell, Dean?" Comes the mumbled comment, briefly breaking the silence around them.

Dean takes a deep breath. Once. Twice. Then he loses count.

Shallow breaths create little white clouds when his hot breathing clashes against the freezing air. Shaking hands refuse to move unless it's to vibrate with forgotten emotions. Haunted eyes and difficult swallows and a tightness in his chest that he can't understand.

He knew them. The figure. He doesn't know how, or when, or why he had forgotten about them, but he had known them at some point.

(At least, something inside his very own soul screams so.)

Dean didn't see their face. He isn't even sure if they were a man or a woman. He didn't know either why he could feel an old sense of familiarity settle low in his stomach at the sight of the unknown figure.

Perhaps an old client? Someone they knew from one of their cases that had somehow been able to stumble upon them a second time.

But that was good, right? Anyone able to move on after a terrifying experience with the supernatural was always great. Wasn't it?

(Then why is there a black hole in his chest when he tries to recall their face?)

It's like trying to remember something he never knew; like spending his whole life underwater only to find out he's unable to breathe when he reaches the surface.

He knew (knows) that person. That he is sure of.

(Or maybe he's just tired.)

Everything is okay. He'll be better in the morning, and once he's rested and relaxed his brain won't do stupid shit like this.

Like a divine thunder striking him, he feels something hit the back of his mind with the force of entire universes.

 _Castiel._

That came out of nowhere, much like the figure from before, and that thought alone is enough to make him shake in pure terror. Something big is happening (again) and all his instincts scream at him to get out of there while he still can, to run to safety, to never look back.

 _Deep breaths, Winchester. Deep breaths._ Whatever this is, you can beat it. You've been hunting with Sammy for— what? Eleven years? And you have yet to face a menace you can't destroy.

This will stop and get somewhat better at some point, that's almost a given.

With that in mind, he starts the car. He will not lose any of his four precious hours of sleep over what probably is a hallucination caused by not having slept anything at all in the last seventy two hours. He just needs his beauty sleep and a couple of beers, not necessarily in that order.

A car as black as the night that surrounds it cuts through the chilly air. Inside, a restless man searches peace.

* * *

Isn't it beautiful? Tragedy in its purest essence, the kind that makes your breaths harder and your chest tighter.

But this isn't tragic, you may say. Sure, it's sad for us, because we know what happened, but they don't, so that means they won't suffer. Will they?

The twist here is that you're the one who knows. You are aware of Castiel's death and Dean's loneliness and how they could have been perfect for each other, how they already were; but things don't always end like we want them to.

You know that no matter how much Dean searches, how long he lives, how many miles he travels, they'll never find one another.

And that my dear, is the saddest thing that can happen to two souls in love.

* * *

( _Who are you?_ , all of you wonder. _Who are you to witness all this and leave unscathed, knowing everything that's going on?_

Who am I, you say. Who knows. Maybe I'm a god, maybe I'm no one. Perhaps a brokenhearted person, because you know what they say: everyone is a poet when they're sad; and let me tell you, my friend, their love is the saddest story and the most beautiful poem I've ever heard.)


End file.
